Caesaris Legio Invictus Est
by Mushroomian
Summary: Brutus/Radroach is a legionary, inducted into the Legion from a tribal background. This is his story from birth, to induction, to recruitment, and beyond. This story will feature a more Roman Legion, and some liberties will be taken. Contains violence, kidnapping, and other things Legion-y.
1. Desert Winds

A/N: Not my first story on this site, but first story on this new account. Forgot the password to the other one :/

Anywho, on with the show

* * *

Light. Blinding light. And the cold air around him. These were the first things he felt as he was born. He heard cheering, and clapping, but of course, just cried instead. The man in front of him was wearing a T-shirt, lab coat and shorts, and took him in his hands.

"It's a boy!"

The people in the tent clapped harder and cheered louder. Their tribe has just given birth to another member! His father was clapping the hardest, and tears streamed down his face. His mother, on the other hand, was in no real condition to clap. She just gave a weak smile, and fell into unconsciousness.

The cheering stopped and turned into somber silence. Nobody clapped after Yshema closed her eyes. Nobody clapped when the local Follower proclaimed her dead. Nobody clapped when she was buried next to her mother, and her mother, and her mother.

* * *

"Radroach, get over here!"

He always hated that nickname. Radroach. Ever since that day he pissed on a radroach when he woke up in the middle of the night and screamed so loud it woke up the whole village, he was called that. He even forgot his real name people have been calling him that so much. No matter, his father was calling.

"Coming, father!"

Radroach ran out of the mud brick hut where he and his father lived, through the bead door and onto the sandy path outside. The desert sun was pounding the sand with heat, and it was almost blinding to Radroach, who stayed inside all day. Hopping on the sand, putting on his shoes, he almost ran into his father. A tall, hulking man, nicknamed 'Yao Guai', he was getting ready to hunt. Radroach was 10, and it was tradition for kids that age to start hunting for the tribe. The Desert Winds' best men were out hunting for bighorners, as they provided much better meat than the geckos and scorpions Radroach would hunt today.

"Did you bring your spear?" his father asked him, crouching down to one knee.

"Yes, father. I have been sharpening it all day!" obediently responded Radroach.

"Good, for we will need it to be as sharp as possible. The geckos, you see-"

"Yeah yeah, their hide is tough and their claws deadly. I heard it before, father." Radroach interrupted with a smile. Yao Guai returned the smile, and tousled his son's hair.

Chuckling, Yao Guai said, "Of course, of course. Now, we must go,"

The two began on their way to the hunting ground they went to every week. It was a valley between two cliff faces, with a large patch of grass running down the middle along a stream. Geckos and scorpions hang around there, as there was plenty enough water and grass for their prey to appear. Perfect for hunting. When they finally arrived, they were greeted with the face of Yao Guai's brother, Walks-on-Bodies. He got that name from his days as a warrior, defending the village. One of the villages more famous murals on the cliff faces is of Walks-on-Bodies, well, walking on the bodies of the Desert Winds' enemies.

"Brother, you must go. Get out of here."

"Walks-on-Bodies, we are hun-"

"Yao Guai, my brother, please. Leave this place. There are others here. They are not from our tribe, and there are around 100 of them. Leave, and take Radroach with you."

Before Radroach could protest, Yao Guai scooped him up and ran. Shots rang out behind them, and when Radroach looked, he saw Walks-on-Bodies fall to the desert ground, staining it crimson. Men in red stood, laughing at the body, and waved towards Radroach. Nothing good will come out of this.


	2. Attack

Radroach and Yao Guai stumbled into the village.

"Back so soon?" the village elder asked.

Panting, out of breath, Yao Guai tried to explain. "Walks-on-Bodies… men in red… shot…"

"Relax, relax. Yao Guai, you must rest. We will ask of this later. Radroach, what did you see?"

Radroach thought for a while. What did he see? Men in red, Walks-on-Bodies falling down, a gunshot. Laughter. He told this to the village elder, whose face suddenly flushed white.

"Men in red… did they have a banner?"

Radroach thought, and he nodded. One of them had a banner on their back. A red background, with a golden animal in the middle. What was that animal?

The village elder then turned to Yao Guai, who was still there despite the elder's orders.

"Legion."

Yao Guai made a sound of confusion, and the elder continued.

"The Legion. Caesar's Legion. They invade tribes like ours and assimilate them into their culture. We must prepare for battle."

"But elder, sir, the Desert Winds have not fought for years!"

"I am afraid we must fight."

Yao Guai somberly nodded and jogged to his tent, still breathless, and gathered his old armor. It was made of scavenged items, a road sign here, a tire there, and it was fairly good in melee combat. But nothing could prepare them for the storm ahead.

* * *

That night, nobody slept. The children were kept awake, in case of invasion and the subsequent evacuation necessary. The men and women of the Desert Winds were patrolling in and out of the village, on the lookout for those men in red, those Legion men.

Yao Guai was patrolling with the elder, when suddenly a rustle from the bushes alerted him. He threw a spear into the bush, hoping to kill whoever had been stalking him. The only thing that fell out was a gecko, with a spear through its head. Yao Guai sighed. His nerves were on end, and he had no intention to sleep again. This 'Legion' was not coming. They were not dangerous. The Desert Winds numbered around 100 people, they cannot simply be conquered. But his thoughts were cut short when the elder gurgled behind him, and when he turned around, he saw it. A man in a red uniform, gear from an old world game, and a banner on his back. Legion.

"Ave, Yao Guai. I have been watching you." the man said, removing his machete from the elder's throat.

"Who are you?" Yao Guai asked, his voice shaking.

"My name? My name is Heremus. I am a Decanus in Caesar's Legion. We are thousands strong, and we will not take kindly to resistance. Go back to your village, and tell them what I have told you here. If you do not surrender by tomorrow, we will have your people exterminated. Wiped off the face of the map." Heremus seemed to genuinely enjoy saying those last words, as if he had a disdain for tribal people as a whole. Shaking violently, with a flash of anger in his eyes, Yao Guai obeyed. He turned tail and ran, but was stopped by Heremus' yell.

"Wait, tribal. You forgot this!" he yelled as he tossed Yao Guai his elder's head. It had a frozen expression of shock and pain, and the elder's tanned skin was slowly turning paler and paler.

* * *

"I have news of the elder." Yao Guai said to his village when he got back. He held up the head of the village elder, his hair barely being able to carry it. The people of the village looked at it in horror, and one even fainted. "The Legion did this. And they told me that they are thousands strong. They were watching me, and they are possibly watching now. There is no hope. We must surrender."

The people of the village shifted, as if they were not sure what to make of that information. Then, a horn blew from the horizon, and the ground started to shake, and they heard heavy footsteps. Out of the treeline, Legionaries marched onto the clearing where the village was located. The trumpeter blew his horn and all of them stopped. Then, one legionary out of the group approached the village. Heremus.

"Have you made your decision, profligates? Do you surrender to us, legionaries of Caesar, the conqueror of the 39, the son of Mars, and the rightful heir of the world?"

The villagers whispered among themselves in a hushed voice, and then Yao Guai pushed towards the front of the group.

"No."

Villagers gasped and Heremus' smirk dropped off his face.

"What?" he asked, incredulously.

"No." Yao Guai said, defiantly. "We will not surrender. I know it may seem dire, but we have survived it all."

Yao Guai's sudden change of heart startled the villagers, but some started coming forth.

"We have survived through the exile of our people, by the hands of the Fredonians. When they drove us from our lands, we survived. When deathclaws attacked our village on our way here, we survived. And when Caesar tries to destroy us, we will survive!"

The villagers cheered, and readied their weapons.

"Pity. I would've loved to have him decorate my armor. No matter. Legionaries, kill them all. Leave the children." Heremus said with a bored expression.

The legionaries, upon hearing their decanus' orders, charged forth. The Desert Winds did so as well. They clashed, and a coppery stench filled the air. Metal upon metal, wood on leather, even fist to fist. The clank of metal weapons was heard from the mud brick huts, where Radroach and the children hid.

"R-Radroach?" a child asked. "I-is my father going t-to be o-okay?"

Radroach sighed. He did not know. But he had to keep their spirits up.

"Yes. He will be fine, as we will win this battle."

The child smiled at him, and went back into the corner. Then, the bead door was ripped down, and a legionary entered the building.

"I found the kids!" he yelled.

Radroach looked at him with shock, and cowered in the corner. Another legionary entered the building, then another. They pulled all the children out of the hut, and lined them up outside.

The scene was gruesome. A few legionary bodies were scattered around, but the majority was of the Desert Winds. Some, still alive, were lashed by a whip to the legionaries amusement, and then Radroach saw it. On a telephone pole, he saw his father. Yao Guai was tied to the pole.

"Father!" he yelled, and he ran towards the pole. He was tripped by a legionary and kicked in the back of the head. His vision flashed white, and he became dizzy. The world was spinning, and the last thing he remembered was him being dragged away, and a legionary laughing as he lashed his father across his bare chest, each whip crack sending him crying out in agony.


	3. MMCCLVII

Radroach woke up a few minutes later, and the first thing that he noticed was the smell of smoke. He slowly, agonizingly turned his head to the skies, and saw it. Black pillars of smoke, rising towards the heavens, as an affront to the gods themselves. That dream of the Legion was thankfully just that. A dream. He turned his head and got up, and saw what he was dreading most. It was not a dream. It was his reality. His father on a telephone pole, his tribe wiped out, the children abducted. He felt a push on his back which sent him tumbling down to the sand below.

"Time to go, kid. No talking, and if you fall behind you get left behind."

He turned to the legionary behind him. He was tall, and his shoulders broad. His red armor below his leather was striking, and he felt nothing but disdain for him and his kind. Yet, for some reason, he followed. Self preservation? Obedience? He did not know, but he still obeyed. The line of children was long, with almost 30 children being in the line. They ranged from the oldest, himself, to the youngest, who was a child of 2 years. She was being carried by her sister, who Radroach recognized to be his best friend, Flowing-Water. She turned to him and smiled, which Radroach returned. The legionary next to him noticed, and hit him with the butt of his rifle.

"No fraternizing, wastrel. If I catch you even looking at her again, I assure you, it will not be pretty."

With a gulp, and a heart racing so hard he was sure the entire wasteland heard his heartbeat, Radroach obeyed. He had to.

Hours and hours of just walking, when the sun finally relented its assault on his skin and set behind the horizon.

"We rest tonight. Don't even think about running away, we will find you."

Although Radroach couldn't even fathom how anyone could run in this situation, he still shuddered at the thought of what would happen to the people that ran. With his bare hands, he dug a hole in the sand and slept. His dreams were plagued by thoughts of legionaries, of the bull, of his father. His home. His people. He awoke in a cold sweat, and the heat of the unforgiving Arizona sun started to hit him. The legionaries who were asleep also awoke, and ordered the children to keep on moving. One child, not older than 8, did not wake up in time, and was left behind. Radroach tried to run and wake him up, but was tackled by a legionary, who beat him black and blue for his insolence. A brutal beating, across his entire body, had him doubled over in pain, but he kept on walking, even after the legionaries laughed. Even after they beat him some more. He had to keep moving. For his father, and for his people.

* * *

"We're here."

Radroach heard those words, yet didn't believe it until he saw it. A camp, surrounded by walls of scrap metal and banners of the bull. Campfire smoke rose from it, and the pounding of drums and the scraping of metal on metal filled the air.

"Centurion Remus! We have returned with 27 new recruits!"

The legionary who shouted this at the gates was met with the opening of said aforementioned gates, and the children were herded inside. The children of the Desert Winds were placed into a small ramshackle hut, and separated by gender. Radroach saw Flowing-Water get her sister taken away from her and given to a strange woman. She was wearing rags with a red 'X' on the front, and she looked… broken. Radroach did not know just how to describe her, with her long, unkempt, raven hair, and her face which perpetually seemed crestfallen. She looked dirty, as if she hadn't bathed in years, and flinched every time the legionaries touched her. Flowing-Water cried to herself as her sister was taken away, and all the youngest children were taken, from ages 5 downwards. The legionaries then lead the males out of the shack, and took them into an arena of sorts.

"Welcome, new recruits. Whatever your tribe's name was, it does not matter anymore. You are not of your tribe, for you are now Legion. Legionaries. We are all Legion here. My name is Decanus Vegetius, and you will refer to me as such. I will train you from the boys you are, to men of the Legion. Now, we shall begin today with a simple physical exercise. We will run around the camp for an hour, and after that, we will begin your training for today.

Radroach looked around himself, and saw the boys around him shifting slightly in place. Uncomfortable himself with the prospect of vigorous exercise, he put his hand on one's shoulder and smiled. The boy looked back and smiled back. With the sound of a horn, the boys ran. They ran around the camp until they dropped, quite literally in some boys' cases. None of them lasted the whole hour. Radroach dropped around the 15 minute mark. Decanus Vegetius kept his half-sprint pace, and looked back to the boys with a disappointed glare that seemed to look like he expected this to happen.

"Since you failed so miserably, we will not continue with our training regimen for today. Instead, you will all do 200 push-ups to compensate. After that, we will begin the induction ceremony. Do try to complete all push-ups, else we might have to be less… forgiving with your transgressions."

Induction ceremony? Radroach was more nervous of that than the 200 push-ups he was ordered to do, which took him 4 hours to complete. Each push-up became a struggle to complete, even more so than the last. His arms had lost all feeling a long time ago, and he could not even bring them to lift himself off the ground. Nevertheless, he got up with only his legs and some difficulty and headed over to where Vegetius was standing.

"Finished already, boy? My, my. Looks like we have a strong one over here. What's your name, boy?"

"R-Radroach, sir."

Vegetius raised an eyebrow and took his helmet off. He looked at Radroach with a menacing glare, and lowered his voice to a growl.

"It's not sir, boy. It's Decanus Vegetius, sir. And I will not tolerate improper referral to myself. I didn't spend 5 years in New Mexico to be called just 'sir'. Am I clear, boy?"

"Yes s- Decanus Vegetius, sir."

"Good. Now tell me your name."

"Ra-Radroach, Decanus Vegetius, sir."

"Very good. Now, Radroach, we will need to change that name. Radroach is a tribal name, one that does not carry honor. You are Legion now, and you need to carry yourself higher than your tribal background. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Decanus Vegetius, s-sir."

"Excellent. Now you can rest. When the rest of them are finished, we will begin the ceremony."

The rest of the boys finished at most, two hours after Radroach. The last one, a fat boy by the name of Ontario, after the long-forgotten promised land of snow and forests, was met with remarks and groaning about how slow he was and how he was holding up the rest of them. Once he was finished, the boys lined up next to Decanus Vegetius.

"Now, boys, we will head to the induction ceremony. There you will receive new names and new identities. You will become Legion. Now, follow me to your new tomorrow."

* * *

Marching slowly to a large wooden structure, single file, the boys filed one by one into the building, through the canvas door. The 'door' was merely a red canvas, with the golden bull of the Legion adorning it. Inside, there were long tables with benches, where some legionaries were sitting. At the end of the table was a man, whose armor was different than the rest. It was a mixture of a strange metallic armor, with a strange helmet, looking like the gods themselves, and some bones. The metal on it was red, but the paint was chipping in some areas, showing the grey metal underneath. The letters 'MMCCLVII' were etched on the chestplate, looking relatively new. The man got up when he saw the boys entering the building and greeted them with a warm welcome and arms outwards.

"Welcome, new children! I am Centurion Augustus, and I will be conducting your induction ceremony into the Legion today! You will receive new names, new identities, and new tomorrows. Come, come, we have no time to waste. I am a busy man, you know."

They didn't know, but nobody was stupid enough to say that. The first child went up, and it was the child Radroach had comforted before the grueling run.

"Name, boy?"

"Paul."

The Centurion slapped the boy across the face, making tears well up in his eyes.

"I don't think you know who you are talking to. When I ask you something, you answer with, 'Yes Centurion Augustus, sir'. Am. I. Clear?"

Fighting back tears and holding his cheek, Paul nodded. The Centurion raised an eyebrow and cocked back his hand, ready to backhand the child again. Noticing this, he quickly said, "Yes Centurion Augustus, sir."

"Satis bene. Now, you shall receive a new name. One that commands power for a boy as strong as you."

Paul seemed to unconsciously puff his chest out in response to the compliment, but the Centurion continued.

"Hmmm. Decanus Vegetius?"

"Yes, Centurion, sir?"

"Any suggestions?"

They both seemed to think, until Vegetius spoke up.

"Tiberius, Centurion sir."

"Hmm?"

"He should be named Tiberius, after the ancient river that Mars swam in."

"Excellent. Then that is his new name." turning back to Paul, he proclaimed, "Do not let anyone call you by your old name. You are not Paul, for that is a profligate name. You are Tiberius, and never forget it."

Beaming, but still smarting, Tiberius sat down at the table.

"Next!"

This went on for a while, with children being named left and right. Julius here, Gaius there, and Ontario being named Latium, to his chagrin. He didn't seem to like being named after places. No matter, for now Radroach will be named. He was the last one, being the oldest.

"Finally, you. Radroach, was it?"

"Yes, Centurion Augustus, sir."

"This one will be easy. You seem like a strong, intelligent young man. I know exactly what to call you."

All the children seemed to lean in to hear what the Centurion had to say.

"Brutus."

The children politely clapped, as was taught by example from Vegetius, and Radro- Brutus sat down next to his new friends, Tiberius and Latium. He always hated his old name. 'That was one time!', he thought. He felt a twinge of guilt as he thought back to his tribe, who nicknamed him that not out of malicious intent, but out of good nature. He thought back to his father, and his mother who died giving birth to him. What would they say if they saw Brutus now? Their little Radroach, with the Legion? But then the feast begun, with food the likes of which none of the tribals have seen before, and all those thoughts melted away and dissipated, never to be thought up again.


	4. The Legatus

Brutus trained all throughout his time at Camp Vulpe. He quickly learned that there was no such thing as 'me time' in the Legion. Free time was almost nonexistent, and when the rare occasion of free time presented itself, he was expected to work on things like his armor or hone his weapon skills, Mars forbid he fell behind in that. Vegetius would probably tear him a new one, quite literally depending on his mood. Brutus was the strongest out of the batch of recruits he came with, being the oldest. The horn sounded, and all the boys stopped sharpening their wooden machetes and marched, single file, a tent on the outskirts of the camp, and stood to attention.

It was time for their daily lessons. Magister Garius, a relatively short man compared to other legionaries, with a slim but toned figure and a very obvious limp, was already outside the schoolhouse. The schoolhouse is nothing but a larger tent, but it did get the job done. In class, the students are taught the Latin language, and are indoctrinated in the Cult of Mars.

"Long ago, in these very lands, there lived a nation. A nation of war, a nation of peace. A nation of freedom, a nation of tyranny. A nation of love, a nation of hate. That nation was known as the United States of America. It was contradictory in every way imaginable. Though its leaders talked of being the 'peacekeepers of the world', they, too, fell into warlike barbarity and brutality when resources ran scarce. They relied on technology, they relied on their nonrenewable resources, such as oil and coal.

This was their downfall.

When their resource mines ran out, they looked towards the rest of the world. But alas, they found nothing but empty mines and angry citizens, angry that their profligate lifestyle was disrupted, angry that they had to do something for themselves, by themselves, for once. They turned to one of the only places in the world that still had their precious resources that made their country run.

But it was controlled by their enemy, China. A deadly war the States barely won erupted, further depleting the already scarce resources. The United States further divided itself, patronizing and segregating its own citizens. It turned from its Founding Fathers' beliefs, and with it, their legacy was tarnished. The streets were patrolled by corrupt police, and deadly robots. Rebellions were squashed, but more and more sprung up.

Finally, in the distant land of Alaska, a land of cold and strange white substance, the Chinese invaded. They lost. Fearing the collapse of both their nations, it happened. Mars was dissatisfied by the deplorability and degeneracy of both the nations, and commanded their leaders to turn Mars' gift to the world against each other.

Mars' Gifts, deadly bombs that destroy cities flew across the world, striking their targets. The aftermath of Mars' orders can be seen to this day. Look outside the tent, and see the scorched wastelands of Arizona. Deathclaws, radscorpions, radroaches, mutfruit, geckos. All have been aftermath of Mars' blessing upon Terra. Mars' Gifts did not eliminate all life, however.

Some survived. The strong and righteous survived. Either out in the wasteland or in Mars' temples underground, they survived. After years, decades, even, they emerged from the underground temples to survive in the wastes once more. Mars gifted some of them with certain weapons that prove useful, and others with resistance to his Gifts' aftermath.

However, most turned away Mars, and continued on with their profligate lifestyles, forming tribes and small towns. However, 40 years ago, Mars had had enough. His subjects were not following his righteous command, and he was going to do something about it. He sent his son, Caesar, to us 40 years ago, to cleanse the wasteland once more, and to provide humanity with civilization once mo-"

Garius was cut off by the blowing of a very loud horn, louder than the training horn or even the lunch horn. Confused, he stepped outside. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked incredulously at a recruit.

"Didn't hear?" the recruit said with a hint of excitement. "The Legate is said to have been visiting the camp." Looking at Garius' surprised face, he added, "No, not the Malpaise Legate. He is still out West, scouting western Arizona for the river Caesar told us about. It's Legatus Heremus."

"Alright, boys, pack it up. Don your best armor and weapons, and stand to attention at the front gates. The Legatus is coming, and we need to make a good first impression.

The little legionaries obeyed his orders, and took their armor. Brutus' armor was made of a too-large football chest and shoulder plate, made of red old-world plastic and rusted metal that somehow survived the Cleansing. It was given to him by a recruit legionary, who didn't need it anymore after he outgrew it years ago. Brutus modified it with wooden spikes on the shoulder pads and a Gilded Taurus on his chest for good luck during battle. His helmet was the standard-issue football helmet, and his pteruges was ripped from a scuffle with Latium a week ago. Brutus' machete was made of a line of razor blades welded together and to a street sign, with all paint scrubbed off meticulously. The handle was an old chair leg, filed down to better suit its new purpose.

The boys learned how to weld not long after their Uplifting, and were told to make their own weapons. No weapons would be supplied to them, but they were given ample materials to make it from. Latium was a natural at welding, making him the resident blacksmith. Dinners were the main currency among the boys, as real denarii were hard to come by for the children. Latium had many, many extra dinner rations those few weeks, and when the time came to inspect the weapons, Brutus' contubernia was the best in the camp.

Latium adapted well to the new lifestyle, and it showed. His once fat body was almost completely replaced with one of a strong young man, with defined muscles and even a more defined jawline. His armor was made almost completely from scratch, with wood-reinforced gecko leather comprising his chestplate, along with the other standard issue items such as the helmet and pteruges. His machete was completely made of metal, much to his chagrin on particularly hot days. A gecko leather grip solved this problem, to an extent. An old-world pipe formed the handle, while the blade was of a lawnmower blade, which was welded onto said handle. He didn't care much for machetes, however. He thought them to be too 'weak'. Instead, he fought with his homemade trident. It was his pride and joy, and took a very long time to complete. Sneaking some scrap metal from the scavengers' stash, then told he didn't actually needed to sneak when he was inevitably caught by Vegetius, he spent a very long time on his pet project. All his free time, as little as it was, was spent on his project. Vegetius cared little if his students slept, as long as they let him sleep. They will deal with the consequences themselves. So Latium visited the forge at night, and stayed there until sunrise working on his project. At last, two days ago, it was complete. A handle of wood, and the prongs made of strong old-world gunmetal, and the head made of steel, it was absolutely his pride and joy. Though it was a lot bigger than he can handle effectively, he knew he would grow into it, and then it would be absolutely formidable. A wooden replica of his trident was used in the arena, albeit smaller so he could actually handle it. He actually won some tournaments with its reach, though most of the time it is a hindrance. If they manage to come closer than the trident will allow, he was almost always dead meat. Since they could not have more than one weapon in the arena, he usually just used his wooden machete.

Tiberius, on the other hand, needed a bit more adjustment from his profligate life to his new one, unforgiving as it is. He was not as strong or fast as the rest of his comrades, nor was he as tall or imposing as the others. But he did have one thing, and that was intelligence. When Decanus Vegetius' lights went out, Tiberius fixed them so fast Vegetius was sure he was going to shock himself. Tiberius didn't even know how he knew how to fix it, as he had never done anything of the sort before. Nevertheless, he became the resident handyman, even surpassing some fully-fledged legionaries in his prowess. His armor wasn't as well-made as Latium's, nor as effective as Brutus', but what is was, was imposing. A large metal plate was draped beneath the leather tunic, with large rail spikes poking out of the chest and shoulder pads. He painted the face of Mars on the front, and the Gilded Taurus on the back. His 'kill' count was painted on his helmet, with kills being victories in the arena. Currently, it was up to 14, which was nothing to scoff at. Arena tournaments were held each week, and with him only being there for 5 months, it was respectable. He never won one of them, mind you, but he does get pretty far, with his highest being in the semi-finals versus someone from another contubernium, Marius, who was a very formidable opponent. He didn't fight with a machete, unlike his peers. Instead, he chose to fight unarmed, to show the older and taller boys he wasn't a coward. Metal plates strapped to his knuckles were his weapons of choice, and he was not a foe to be reckoned with, although he used ones with wood instead for arena fights. They were supposed to be non-lethal, of course. He fought with intellect, not brute strength, no pun intended. He watched his opponent's fighting style, and exploited it. Brutus learned the hard way when he swung his machete at Tiberius, who dodged it and punched him in the groin. Writhing in agony on the ground, Tiberius pulled him into a choke hold and held tight until Brutus lost consciousness. Latium beat him, squarely, but that defeat stung, in both ways.

The contubernia, along with every other legionary in the camp, were lined up next to the door, prepared to greet their Legatus. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the old, wooden door creaked open. In came a man unlike any Brutus had seen before. His helmet was adorned with plumes of ornate feathers, in a pattern unlike any he had ever seen. The crimson feathers, along with the violet and the black feathers, were blowing in the wind in the most magnificent way. Heremus' face was that of a middle-aged man, with a salt-and-pepper beard hugging his face. His aquiline nose fit perfectly with his sharp, accusatory eyes, that didn't gaze from his objective. His armor was fitted perfectly to his form, a full-torso bronze armor piece, bronze gauntlets, and thick leather underneath. His pteruges was lined with bronze, and his boots looked to be pre-war military boots, judging by their quality. The armor was painted almost fully in Legion crimson, and the Gilded Taurus was shown proudly in the center of his chest, and it was quite literally gilded. It shined in the desert sun, proudly showing off how well its owner cared about it. His sword was the most impressive of all, with the gilded handle and the blade. The blade was large, forged from the finest old-world steel, being half its owner's already impressive height. Intricate markings were etched into the sword, telling of its rich history and its conquests. The numbers 'CLXXI' were etched into the blade, no doubt its kill count.

"Where is the Centurion of this camp?" the Legatus asked, his voice booming over the legionaries.

"Greetings, Legatus Heremus, sir. Welcome to Camp Vulpe." Centurion Augustus said, quickly. "These are the men of the camp. But, may I ask you, what is the meaning of your visit?"

Heremus scowled at the Centurion, and replied to him with, "I was told to come here by Lord Caesar himself, as we will begin conquest north of here very soon."

The Centurion looked dumbfounded, and tentatively asked his superior, "W-when exactly is soon, my Legatus?"

"Now."

* * *

"Damned Legatus, not telling us until the last minute. 'Conquer this, take over that'. Couldn't he have told us this at least a month ago? For Mars' sake, he could've sent a damn messenger!"

The Centurion ranted on and on to his Primus Decanus, who only sat there and nodded obediently. Then, after he had worn himself out, he drank a glass of water sitting on his desk and continued. "No matter. We shall conquer the tribes to the north quickly. What is the status of the century, Decanus?"

"The men are prepared, my Centurion, and ready to fight. The children may have some trouble, but the coming battles will give them much-needed experience."

"Very good, Decanus. Dismissed."

The decanus extended his arm, parallel to the ground, in a Roman salute, and quickly marched out of the Centurion's tent, leaving the Centurion to sit at his desk and slam his head into it repeatedly.

"March, march, boys. March like your lives depend on it!"

In a way, they did. Decanus Vegetius marched alongside his disciples, knowing that if he did not train them in these final days, they might not survive the coming battles. The children were to be sent in with the Prime Legionaries, after the recruits. This way, they are protected by the older, more veteran legionaries, and also get a chance to prove themselves in the heat of battle. But this will not matter if they cannot even march 10 miles in the scorching sun.

"Let's get a move on, Marcus, we don't have all day!"

Brutus, Tiberius, and Latium were all marching together, and talking amongst themselves.

"Did you see the Legatus?" Tiberius said, giddily.

"We all did, but how about the Taurus on his chest?" Latium responded, equally as giddy.

"And his sword!" Tiberius added.

Brutus wasn't much for talking at the moment, however. His brothers in arms had forgotten where they had came from. Though the Legion tried to erase Brutus' memories of his past tribal life, they couldn't. In his heart, he was still Radroach. In his heart, he was the son of Yao Guai, not the Legion. But the Legion does not know what is in his heart, did they? Perhaps they did, but nothing could change the way Brutus felt about his past. No amount of brainwashing can change his past. A twinge of guilt went through his body as he remembered his father, lashed to a cross, like a degenerate. Brutus had seen people lashed to a cross in the months he had been Legion, and they were all scum. Thieves, raiders, junkies. Nothing more than shit caked to the desert floor. But his father was also lashed to a cross. Does that mean that he was a degenerate? And if Yao Guai was a degenerate, his child, Radroach, Brutus would be a degenerate as well. Those were the rules, were they not? While his friends walked behind him, excited about the coming battle, Brutus was dreading it. For if he spills blood for Legion, then he must be Legion, is he not?


	5. All Roads Lead to Flagstaff

"Ave, Primus Pilus."

"True to Caesar, Centurion Augustus."

The two men pulled out their chairs and sat down together in their temporary camp, in the command tent. The tent was fairly large, with ample space. It had a table with a map strewn across it, and figures of legionaries on it with numbers attached to them. 'Century IV, Century VII, Century II', et cetera. A bed was in the corner of the tent, flanked by a desk with an electrical lamp shining light into the room. It was turned to shine its light all over the tent, while not illuminating the various documents and leftover food and plates on the desk, left after many sleepless nights.

"When do you think we will move towards the Vaqueros, Centurion?"

"Not soon enough." Was the response from the exhausted Augustus. "No notice from the Legatus until the last moment, our men are not as prepared for this as they should be."

"I hear you. I will support you with the first cohort, while your century will lead the main assault."

"Thank you, Primus Pilus. My men really need the experience."

"Of course, Augustus. Now, get some sleep. It is going to be a big day tomorrow."

"True to Caesar."

"True to Caesar."

As the Primus Pilus was starting to leave, Augustus then cried out to him.

"Wait!"

"Hmm?"

"What of the children? They do require experience but these Vaqueros are said to be very formidable with firearms. This will not be a good battle for them."

The senior Centurion nodded, and thought. "Hmph. Well, how about we send them in to clean up after the recruits?"

"Excellent idea, Primus Pilus Aurelius. I will see that it is done."

"True to Caesar, Augustus. True to Caesar."

* * *

The children, on the other hand, were watching their arena tournaments.

"I'm betting my dinner rations tonight Marius will win!" said Tiberius. "He's really good!"

"Not so fast." Brutus responded. "Marius is strong, but he's not fast. Julius will beat him resoundingly."

"Hah! You're on, Brutus! Watch, any second now Marius will-"

The boys hear a thud, then cheering. On the ground is Marius, pinned by Julius' foot to the ground.

"You made me miss the final blow!" Brutus chastised teasingly to his younger friend. "But, I guess more dinner rations will have to do."

Grumpily, Tiberius handed Brutus his ration slip and changed the subject.

"So," he said. "How about that Legatus?"

"Not this again." Brutus groaned. "We've all seen him. Just quit it."

"Okay, okay." came the response from Tiberius, clearly slightly dejected from not having the opportunity to talk about the Legatus. Noticing this, Brutus also changed the subject.

"Who's the next one up?"

Tiberius thought, and his face lit up. "Oh! It's Latium and Marcus!"

Brutus nodded, smiling. Those two were absolutely the best fighters to watch. A few minutes later, they appeared and jumped into the arena. The arena was a hole in the sand, blasted by a stick of dynamite with a sandbag wall surrounding the hole, which could be moved to allow entry, but they do not allow exit until someone pushes the sandbags. Marcus was wearing his armor, which was a standard looking piece of armor, with leather and metal like the other legionaries. His weapon, however, was a spear. He was very accurate when throwing spears, and could make one out of a plank of wood in around 10 minutes without power tools. With power tools from the smithy, like the sander and buzzsaw, he could make one in 4 minutes flat. His personal spear was decorated with feathers, which also served as fletching, and markings to signify is arena kills.

"Go Latium!" Tiberius shouted as his friend hopped into the arena. The aforementioned friend looked towards where his name was called, and gave Tiberius a thumbs up before having his trident tossed to him.

Marcus leaped over the sandbags into the arena, spear in hand, and snarling.

"Let's see who really is the better fighter, fat boy."

"Maybe I was fat when I arrived, but at least I'm not a profligate."

"You take that back!" Marcus said with a shocked expression.

"Make me." Latium shot back.

Vegetius' horn sounded, and the boys started to duel. Latium's trident clashed with Marcus' spear, and the hooks on the trident caught the other boy's weapon. Jerking his trident to the side, the spear fell out of Marcus' hands. Scrambling to get it, Marcus dodged a jab from Latium's trident, and picked up his fallen weapon. As he tried to get up, Latium stabbed the ground with his trident, catching Marcus' leg along with it. Try as he might, he was stuck. But, Latium had lost his weapon. Grinning, Marcus used his free arm to pick up sand and throw it in Latium's face, who instinctively covers it with his hands, and tried to wipe the sand off. Taking his hands off his trident. Marcus pulls the trident out of the ground, and kicks Tiberius on the ground, putting his spear to Tiberius' throat.

The crowd goes wild. Cheers, boos, and even the occasional laugh were all heard, and Latium was humiliated. In front of everyone, he had lost!

"Now, take it back." Marcus said triumphantly.

Grumbling, Latium said under his breath, "Fine…."

Grinning, Marcus climbed out of the arena, and held out his hand to Latium.

"Good fight, Latium. I look forward to our next one."

Not one to be unsportsmanly, Latium extended his own hand and shook Marcus' before being pulled out of the arena. "Yes, good fight." He grumbled, animosity dripping from his words.

"Better luck next time." Tiberius said, which did not cheer Latium up in the slightest.

"Shut your mouth." was his response.

Next up was two boys none of the friend group really knew, nor did they care much. Two boys named Macellarius, and Titus. Titus was an average looking boy, not remarkable on his own. Macellarius' face, however, was disfigured on the right side. Tiberius commented on how this will be easy for Titus to win, as Macellarius looked like a ghoul, he was so disfigured. But the more they half-heartedly watched, the more they realized one of the boys' skills. Titus was barely defending against Macellarius' blows, which were fast and hard. Then, in the blink of an eye, Titus' wooden machete snapped from the blows, and Macellarius started to beat him mercilessly with his own broken machete, which snapped in the same impact. Vegetius blew his horn, and Macellarius stopped, saluted, grabbed Titus' hand from the ground, shook it, and went back into the stands. Brutus and Tiberius sat agape at the brutality they just saw, and Titus could barely pick himself up from the ground.

"His bones are broken." Vegetius proclaimed. "Get him to a slave doctor, now!"

Thinking fast, Brutus hopped over the sandbags and lifted Titus up. Straining to speak, Titus whispered into Brutus' ear, "Thank you."

"Shhh. You could make your injuries worse, Titus. I will get you to a slave."

Titus was heavy, but that didn't bother Brutus. Titus was his comrade, his brother-in-arms. He would help him even if it kills him, damn it! Walking across the hot desert, away from the awning that covered the arena, he walked over to where he knew the slaves resided.

A large red tent with a white plus sign on it stood in front of him. 'This must be the medical tent,' Brutus thought. 'Finally! My legs were starting to hurt.'

Brutus opened the flap to see he was correct in his assumption. Slave women milled about, most looking like walking skeletons wearing rags. The tent stunk of death, like a molerat that died where no one could find it, but close enough that you could smell it. The 'walls' of the tent to his left and right were lined with beds. Some were occupied, most were not. A slave woman, looking more healthy than the rest, but not by much, approached Brutus.

"What is your business h-here, s-s-..." her words trailed off, and Brutus noticed the bags underneath her eyes. They looked to be days, if not weeks old. Her rags were torn in places best left unsaid, and seemed to be deliberate. Her knees wobbled with every breath she took, and her eyes were empty and dead, as if she were not even human any longer.

"My comrade, Titus, was badly injured. Heal him." Brutus commanded her, voice quivering.

"Please. He needs help."

Her eyes opened wide, wider than he thought was possible. "P-please? B-but s-sir, you don't need to be p-polite to a slave like m-m-me!"

Brutus did not know why he had said it, and he did not know why he said what he said next. "Because you are human, too, and you deserve respect as much as the Centurion or Legatus deserves respect."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she gingerly took Titus out of Brutus' hands. She did not speak, but her face said all that Brutus needed to know she wanted to say.

Thank you.

* * *

"Just like that, Deccus. Put your whole body into the swing, and your enemy will fall."

The training area was large, next to the arena, and was filled today with children and adults alike. The dummies were made of straw and leather, or the occasional disobedient slave. These ones were usually chosen by the more sadistic legionaries, or the mere unlucky ones. Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus saw Macellarius hacking at an aforementioned slave, her blood and flesh splattering on Macellarius' face and the ground. Somehow, he felt he was not of the latter.

"What's the deal with him?" Brutus asked his comrade next to him.

Tiberius turned around, and replied with, "Macellarius? It's said he came from a tribe of vicious warriors, and he was only captured by 5 legionary veterans. 2 of them were killed in the scuffle, and the others left him for dead after a brutal beating in which his face was horribly disfigured. He followed them back to their camp, through the desert and without them ever spotting him. No food, and no water packed for the journey. They trekked for days until they got to their camp. Macellarius went up to the gate of their camp, and stormed inside, not caring about the consequences. He was struck by a spear, which impaled his shoulder, and killed even more legionaries until the camp Decanus put an end to the battle. It is unknown what happened after that, however. Most assume he simply joined, some think he was swayed, and others still think something more sinister is afoot. I, myself, think he just joined, and enjoys bloodshed."

"O-okay, then. Thanks, Tiberius," was the only words that Brutus could form after hearing the absolutely insane story of Macellarius. "I-I'll keep that in mind"

"No problem, Brutus. True to Caesar."

Brutus walked away from the training field in a daze, his mind being flooded with thoughts. 'Macellarius, who was only 10, had done all that?' he thought to himself. 'Remind me not to get on his bad side, if he even had a good side.' In an attempt to get this revelation behind him, he got to work on his armor and weapons, for the time for battle was quickly approaching, and he was not one to be behind in his duties to Mars.

* * *

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump thump._

_Thump thump thump tha-thump thump thump thump._

_The sounds of marching men, and the sounds of war drums beating filled the coppery air._

_Smoke was around everything, enveloping all in its deadly embrace. The cries of women and children were heard, then a sickly crunch as one by one, they were silenced. War cries and chants filled the air. _Si vis pacem, para bellum. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. In hoc signo Taurus vinces. _Metal clashing against other metal, but not from fighting._

_But of victory._

_Legionaries hitting their guns and machetes against others' machetes or shields in celebration of their victory. A man crawled towards the legionaries, his legs hacked off in the battle his people had just lost, hoping for the sweet release of death to end the pain._

_He was awarded no such luxury._

_He was lashed until he passed out from the pain at 9, then lashed until his body couldn't take it any more and died from internal hemorrhaging and shock. The legionaries did not care. They kept on laughing and lashing until his back looked as if a deathclaw got to him._

_They laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and_

Brutus awoke in a daze, his breath being short and shallow, his head spinning. The room was spinning, and he sat up, sweating.

"Don't worry, my boy. You are safe."

He looked towards where the voice came from. The left, the right, the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere.

"Know I will always be looking over you."

'I know that voice.' he thought. 'This is the voice of…'

"Dad?" he said into the night.

"Yes, my boy. Know that I shall protect you, and you will be safe from all harm. You will be safe, so just wake up."

"Wake up?"

"Yes. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake-"

"-up Brutus!" shouted Tiberius. Brutus sat up in bed. He looked around and saw no one else in the tent. All beds were empty and made, and sunlight creeped into the tent from the open flap. "How long was I out?"

"Doesn't matter. We go into battle today! Pack up, we're leaving."

"Does it have to be now?"

Tiberius looked at Brutus with the same quizzical expression he always has at stupid questions, and says, "Yes. Go, now."

"Fine, fine."

His ALICE pack quickly filled up with his few personal belongings, being his spare standard-issue weapons and his necklace of spent ammunition he had collected from the training grounds. His armor was already on, and his machete was in its sheath. The food and medicinal rations were already inside his pack, and his rock from the Desert Winds' bonfire was in. He hid it from everyone but his most trusted comrades, being Tiberius and Latium, naturally. They cared little for their tribal past, already indoctrinated by the Legion to think they used to be 'profligates' and 'degenerates'. Brutus knew better. Radroach knew better. But of course, he wouldn't say that out loud. He valued his head more than his values. But will that change? He thought as he marched towards the growing army. Perhaps it will. Perhaps it will.


	6. The March

Through the Arizona wastelands they trekked. The army of legionaries held their Gilded Taurus banners high, and were not afraid of any adversity they met while marching. Three entire Centuries were marching together, their respective Centurions leading the charge. Aurelius was not leading his, however, as he was within the Legatus' carriage, discussing battle plans. His second in command was leading the charge. Primus Pilus Aurelius of Phoenix was Centurion of the First Century, which held 160 men and 40 slaves, as opposed to the Fifth and Third Centuries, which held 80 men and 20 slaves. Brutus was a part of the Third Century, something he was, understandably, proud of.

The Legatus lead the entire army from the front, riding slowly in his personal carriage. His Praetorians marched slowly alongside it, giving a hard glare to all that venture too close to the carriage. It was a thing of beauty, as was everything regarding the Legatus. It was painted deep crimson, not unlike the crimson of the Banner, and led by four mechanical 'horses', which were engines constantly running and turning their two wheels each. They were controlled by reins, which were controlled by a driver on the carriage's perch near the top, and they acted as a steering wheel.

The Legatus' carriage was covered, and specially made for high ranking members of the Legion, such as Legates and high ranking politicians. In the carriage, there were two rows of seats facing one another, and a table in the middle. A map was strewn across the table, with fallen pieces laying across it. The Legatus was sitting in it, discussing battle plans with Primus Pilus Aurelius, Venalicius Octavius, who was the Cohort's assigned slave driver, and the Legatus' head Praetorian, Nero.

"From the south will come Contubernia I-V, I-VI, and I-VII. The rest of the first Century shall stand by, and the fifth Century shall do the same. What of the third Century, Primus Pilus?"

"I shall send the third and fourth Contubernia from the east, and the first and second from the west. I shall also send the fifth, sixth, and seventh to the north to allow for an avenue of escape, or so they think."

"Excellent, Primus Pilus. Octavius, anything to add?" Said the Legatus, turning to the man next to him. The man looked to be not of a fighting type, but instead of an administration type. That's not to say he could not fight, quite the contrary in fact. All members of the Legion, whether they be of the governmental, administration, or even civilians are expected to be able to fight for their nation, and are ready at all times. Octavius was wearing a toga of sorts, not armor. A machete gladius was tucked away in his sheathe, which was on the inside of his toga, strapped to his leg. His graying hair complimented his aging face, in the way vines complimented an aging facade.

"Well, my Legatus, Contubernia III-V, III-VI, and III-VII should be capturing enemies attempting to escape, not killing them. We shall grow significantly with the number of slaves these Vaqueros will provide us, as our scouts and Frumentarii have reported an excess of 500 women and children in the tribe, and only 200 men. We, as in the Officio ab Famulatus, have set a quota of 1,000 slaves this year for this campaign, and if we take half the women and children, we will exceed this quota very soon."

"Of course, Octavius. I will order Centurion Augustus' men to take as many prisoners as possible, and to avoid casualties. Nero, my friend?"

The youngest man at the table looked up, and sat to attention. His face was one of a 20 year old, yet he was in his mid thirties. His armor was that of a traditional Praetorian's armor, with the symbol of the Legatus on his left shoulder, and the Gilded Taurus on the other. His ballistic fist was bought from weapons manufacturers, who also supplied much of the other Praetorians with their own weapons. He spoke up, with a servile tone, "Nothing more to add, my Legatus. This plan of attack seems to be extremely solid to me. Shall you be accompanying them into battle?"

"Yes, I will. When the contubernia have begun their attack, we shall attack from the south with the rest of the men. I wish for the Praetorian Guard to fight alongside the Heavy Infantry, however. Their shields shall absorb all incoming fire, and when they close the distance, spring from behind the shield wall and attack."

"Excellent, my Legatus. I shall inform the Praetorians of your orders. They will be thrilled to finally see some action."

Night fell quickly that day, and the Centuries set up camp. The slaves erected makeshift walls from rock and dirt, and a few contubernia were stationed for the night.

Three days after their departure from Camp Vulpe, a gang of junkies ambushed them from the hills next to the highway. They were deathly pale, and skinny to the bone. Their clothes, if they could be called that, was just leather straps and scavenged pants if they were lucky. Some fought in the nude. Tiberius beat a raider to death with his metal knuckles, his head turning to mere pulp on the sandy dirt. Latium impaled another with his trident, and lifted them up before slamming them down onto the ground with enough force as to break their legs. The raider looked to be only a few years older than Latium, but much, much skinnier. Brutus wondered as to when their last meal was.

Well, it would've been their last meal in both ways now, as Latium smashed their chest in with his boot, their last breath escaping their body in a pitiful squeak. Even the Legatus was joining in on the slaughter. He called his Praetorians off, and attacked raiders by himself, with his sword. It was a different sword from his ceremonial sword he was first seen with, but of the same make without the frivolities. Raiders were cut in half by the blade, and decapitated with one swing. When the dust settled, 19 raiders out of the 24 that attacked the Legion were killed. The remaining 5 were made up of 2 infants, 1 woman, and two males. The two infants and the woman were assigned to a contubernium, and the woman was outfitted with a slave collar immediately, provided by Venalicius Octavius, one of the Legatus' personal staff. The two men were kneeling on the ground, prepared to be executed. Centurion Augustus spoke up to all the legionaries in his Century.

"Today is a day of victory over profligates, and today we shall break in some recruits that have not spilled blood for our glorious cause, so today we shall do so. Marcus and Brutus, please step up to be cleansed permanently of your sins of the past, and to only look towards the future!"

The two boys called up quickly strode to where the prisoners were held, a small, grassy knoll in which all legionaries who wished to see the execution were permitted to do so. Marcus lifted his machete, and brought it down in one swift motion onto the enemy's neck, sending blood spraying out of the hole. The man fell down onto the knoll as the legionaries cheered. Brutus' heart was pounding, however. He couldn't kill a man for the Legion, could he? But if he did not, he would be killed himself for insolence. Taking a deep breath, his heart thumping so loud he was absolutely sure the others could hear it, his stomach in knots, and his entire body protesting this vile, disgusting act, he lifted his machete.

It came down and struck its target with a sickening crunch.

Cheers came from the crowd, who saw his actions as mere dramatics. Brutus didn't hear them, however. He couldn't hear at all. His mind raced and raced, his thoughts were out of control.

_I killed a man_

**Yes, I did.**

_I killed a man_

**I was ordered to.**

_I killed a man_

**I had to.**

_I killed a man_

**He was a degenerate.**

_I killed a man_

**He had it coming to him.**

_I killed a man_

**If not us, then himself.**

_Us?_

**Us.**

_I am not Legion!_

**I am now Legion!**

Brutus sighed to himself, silencing his thoughts. His inner conscience and his ration brain's fighting halted immediately. He would deal with this in the morning. For now, however, he trudged back towards his contibernium's tent, and feigned exhaustion in order to get this day finally behind him.


	7. Caesaris Taurus

Finally, they arrived at their destination. Brutus' century was upon a hill, overlooking the compound where the Vaqueros were said to store their ammunition and weapons. A strike on their weapons depot would cripple the tribe, and possibly expedite the surrender process. It was inhabited, however, and inhabited by entire families. And, as a given with a weapons depot, they were all armed with firearms and some light explosives. Centurion Augustus briefed his men.

"The Vaqueros down there are heavily armed and dangerous. They are said to have a sharp eye and wit, and will not fire warning shots. Not that they would warn men of the Legion. Nevertheless, we have the element of surprise on our side, and we will attack under Mars' cloak of darkness. I have received orders from the Primus Pilus and the Legatus that we are to attack from this very position, so tonight, set up your tents, for today is your day of reckoning. No campfires, no loud noises, only stealth. We are to prepare for the night. That is all."

A 'True to Caesar' and a salute later, Brutus and his contubernium marched back to their tent. Latium and Tiberius were sitting and whispering battle tactics to themselves, while Brutus sat in his sleeping bag and thought to himself about the coming battle. Tears welling up in his eyes, he whispered to himself, inaudible to the rest of his contubernium, "I killed a man. An innocent man."

**He was a raider.**

_But he was a human._

**He would've killed me if the roles had been reversed.**

_But I stooped down to their level._

**He was going to die one way or another.**

_But it was my hand that slew him._

**He was too dangerous to be kept alive.**

_But how do I know for sure?_

**I don't.**

_I don't._

**Nevertheless, I am Legion now.**

_They broke me in._

**My brethren depend on me.**

_If I don't kill, then they will _be _killed._

**Exactly.**

_I don't enjoy killing._

**Not many do.**

_**Yet, I must. It is my duty.**_

"My duty to them." he said to himself.

"Hmm?" Tiberius said from the opposite side of the tent, looking at Brutus from the corner of his eye.

"Nothing." was the response. "It's nothing."

* * *

No horn was blown in the morning for obvious reasons, so Brutus was once again shaken awake by Tiberius.

"Come. The battle will begin very soon."

Brutus nodded, and grabbed his weapons and armor. Putting them on as he walked outside, he saw the other legionaries in his Century preparing for the conquering of the Vaqueros. The hot Arizona sun beat down on them, in contempt for what they are about to do. Brutus followed his contubernium to the location in which they are to assault from, and they gathered around their Decanus. Vegetius was not, in fact, their Decanus this time around. They were to be commanded by another Decanus, one named Salvus, for Vegetius was not a battle Decanus, but a training one. The contubernium was to be of Brutus, Tiberius, and Latium, naturally, alongside Macellarius, Julius, Gaius, and two boys who were of another contubernium originally, but were stationed in Brutus' for some purpose or another. The two slaves were to stay in camp and tend to it with the other contubernia slaves.

"Just follow me, boys, and you will be led to victory."

They walked down the desert hill, and marched towards their designated position. When they arrived, Decanus Salvus ordered them to halt.

"The profligate Vaqueros will be just beyond that stream," Salvus said, pointing towards the aforementioned small stream, which produced a smell so foul it reached the contubernium 40 feet away. Its water was brown with sewage, and it flowed very slowly, as if it was moving despite its wishes. "Wait for the Centurion's mark."

They waited for what seemed to be hours, when it was most likely a mere few minutes. The suspense was deadly, and the sweat on their brows was slowly starting to flow. Finally, as if by Mars himself, they were relieved of the suspense, as a loud war horn blew in the distance. Shouts and yelps came from past the stream, and war cries and chants came from the other contubernia.

"Mars has unleashed us, comrades!" cried out Macellarius. "Charge towards victory!"

The contubernium sprinted forth with the speed of a deathclaw, and with the fury of one as well. The Vaqueros posted near the stream were caught by surprise, and only fired a few shots before being taken out by a spear from Julius and a shot from Salvus.

"Take their weapons, boys! We will need them for the coming fight!"

Brutus and Tiberius sprinted to where the Vaqueros' bodies were, and picked up their firearms. They looked to be manufactured post-war, and looked to be akin to a pre-war AK-47. Why these profligates were using century old designs for weapons, they did not know, nor did they care. Brutus pulled the bolt back and rested the gun on his shoulder before catching up to the rest of his contubernium, which was charging forward.

The Vaquero camp was surrounded by barbed wire and mesh fences, which were no match for a few well-aimed machete swipes. Shots rang out from inside the compound, most likely to the legionaries charging the veritable fortress. The walls were made of stone, wood, and mudbrick, seemingly at random. Spikes protruded from the walls, made of metal, with a feral ghoul impaled on one of them, and a brahmin impaled on another. Macellarius called out a warning, and Brutus dodged out of the way just in time for him to see the sand kick up from where he was, a bullet lodged deep within. He would have to give his thanks later. For now, however, he must fight. Macellarius dug within his sack, and pulled out a bottle. He lit the cloth sticking out of it, and tossed it towards a particularly wood-heavy section of the wall. The resulting inferno was enhanced by legionaries tossing fuel into the fire, dry shrubs here, dead wood there, and even the long lost stock of a rifle was tossed into it. The wall burned fast, and the legionaries leapt through the fire into the fray inside the fort.

Brutus looked around, and saw houses everywhere. Mudbrick, wooden, he even saw a few metal and stone huts. In the middle of the compound, there seemed to be a pre-war wooden farmhouse, and the porch was armored and the windows barricaded with little slits for machine guns. Two Vaqueros sprung out from a hut beside him, but were quickly dispatched by Macellarius and Latium. They were wearing standard wastelander armor, leather and the occasional metal, but their headgear is what defined their gang. The Vaqueros, true to their namesake, were wearing Stetsons, wide brim, and other hats typically considered to be cowboy-ish. They all had a symbol of their kills on their hats, a finger here, an ear there, and even a few teeth, presumably from a particularly large gecko or even a deathclaw.

"Keep fighting, boys!" Salvus said, before falling to the ground in a mist of red, his torso pierced by a dozen bullets by an Vaquero behind him.

"Avenge the Decanus!" Macellarius said, fury in his eyes. Brutus could only watch as the boy sprinted forth, dodging the hail of bullets the poor Vaquero burst, and with one fell swoop, beheaded the gangster. Macellarius assumed control of the contubernium, and commanded them to charge forward into the coming storm.

Smoke billowed from the center of the village, pillars of black assaulting the very eyes of Mars, and cries of, "Pax per bellum!", "True to Caesar!", "In hoc signo taurus vinces!", and "Sic semper profligatas!" filled the air that was unoccupied by smoke and ash. The stench of coppery blood mixed with the smoke, burning the nostrils of all who came close. Yet the legionary boys marched onwards, marched towards the coming battle.

"Attack!" Macellarius commanded. "Destroy the profligates! Kill them all!"

The boys, including Brutus, sprinted forth obediently, and came face to face with Vaqueros. They put up a good fight, but stood no chance against agile, small, and skilled opponents. When the legionaries got into melee range, the Vaqueros dropped their weapons and pulled out knives, axes, machetes, whatever what was at their disposal.

Tiberius stood just outside the reach of a Vaquero with an axe, poking and prodding with a spear, before stepping back, then stepping forward, spear first, into the Vaquero. His hat fell off and hit the ground before he did, and when he did, dust flew up from beneath him as he sand began to stain red.

Latium was in the thick of it, fighting two Vaqueros at once, and using both ends of his trident to attack the enemy. A knife wielding Vaquero lunged in for the kill, and hit the ground as the boy stepped out of the way just in time. Latium pressed his boot against the Vaquero's back, while fending the other one off. "Brutus! Kill this bastard!"

Brutus looked towards Latium's direction, and pulled his rifle out. He aimed towards the downed Vaquero, released his breath, and pulled the trigger, taking his second life. Though he knew how to shoot from his tribalist days, he did not remember what he hunted. Odd, but there are more important matters at hand.

Vaqueros surrounded the boys, and Brutus' gun was slapped out of his hand by a Vaquero behind him. Sneering, the Vaqueros drew closer and closer, finally ready to finish off the boys who had killed so many of their comrades, so many of their brothers. Tiberius was stabbed in the eye with a combat knife, and he fell to the ground, bleeding profusely.

"No!" screamed Latium, who knocked the machete out of his captor's hands and punched him in the groin. As the Vaquero cried out in pain, Brutus pulled out his machete and buried it into a Vaquero's neck, kicking another to the ground before Macellarius threw a knife into his head, burying it in skull.

"Tiberius! He has been wounded!" Brutus cried out to his de facto commander, Macellarius.

"No time, brother. Assault the farmhouse!"

"We cannot leave him here!"

"If we do not secure the house, we will suffer the same fate as him!"

"He is not dead, Macellarius!"

"Stop arguing!" Latium shouted from behind a pile of rubble. "No time!"

"I concur." Macellarius responded. "Attack the farmhouse!"

Why Brutus decided to follow the commands of a 12 year old, he never knew. Yet he did, yet he followed the boy into further battle, leaving Tiberius to bleed out in the hot desert sun.

Suddenly, the roar of a machine gun broke the relative silence, overpowering the noises of blades clashing with steel and smaller calibers being fired. The shroud of fabric surrounding the window lifted into the air every time it fired, the compressed air lifting it from below.

"Duck and cover, brothers!" Macellarius shouted just in time for an adult legionary following them to be practically sawed in half by the buzz saw of a gun. They ducked behind a wall of tires a previous Vaquero had been using as cover.

"Where did they get a machine gun?" cried a bewildered Brutus.

"No matter where they got it, we need to make it so that they stop firing!"

"Understood!"

Brutus reached for his gun, and felt nothing but air. Cursing under his breath for not picking it back up, he called out to Latium, who was taking cover behind a dead brahmin.

"Toss me a firebomb!"

Latium slid the firebomb across the sand, the glass of the bottle scratching across the ground as it moved towards Brutus.

Brutus lit the bomb and grabbed a tire from the stack, and rolled it towards the farmhouse. Not getting anywhere close before it was shot a few times and deflated very quickly, it fell flat around 20 feet from the boys.

"Nice job, Brutus." Latium called out. "Really effective."

"Watch and learn!" came the response.

Brutus peeked upwards and quickly tossed the bomb at the tire. Direct hit. The tire instantly caught fire and started producing thick black smoke, alongside a terrible smell.

"Toss more tires onto it!" Macellarius cried out. "Then roll one towards the house! We'll use the smokescreen as cover!"

As Brutus tossed the final tire of their cover, the smoke became overpowering. He grabbed a flaming tire and quickly kicked it towards the farmhouse, singing his pteruges in the process.

The machine gun fired wildly into the smoke, yet no bullet hit their mark. The boys crawled across the ground, prone, both to avoid the bullets and to avoid inhaling too much smoke. Finally, Latium hit his helmet against something wooden.

"The porch is here, brothers!" Macellarius cried out.

"Thanks, wiseguy, I didn't know that."

"No time for bad jokes, we must kill this profligate!" Macellarius shouted back.

The boys got up and saw the porch was reinforced with metal and sandbags, making it a very defensible point. Dead Vaqueros were strewn across it, no doubt sniped by a Legion sagittarius. The door was not reinforced as heavily as the rest of the porch, and was done in by a well placed kick from Macellarius. The machine gunner looked surprised right before his skull was destroyed from Macellarius' machete.

"Search the house, find the rest of these profligates." he said.

"The rest? What rest?" Brutus asked him.

"I know they have their women, children and elderly hidden somewhere. Check the cellar, Latium. Brutus, you go outside and keep watch. Make sure none of those Vaqueros reinforce themselves here. And make sure you use this." Macellarius reached into his bag and pulled out a Legion banner, one that would signify that the farmhouse has been taken. Brutus nodded dutifully and placed the banner in the sand next to the porch's stairs.

The battle was over in an hour. The Legatus was said to have been fighting among the common legionary, and his praetorians almost ran out of ammunition in their ballistic gauntlets. When the battle was done, there were more than 100 Vaqueros dead, and only around 20 legionaries. The Legatus was roaming the battlefield searching for remnants when he found a young boy, his eye stabbed out and bleeding profusely on the ground.

"The boy, is he dead?" the Legatus said to Nero, kneeling down to view Tiberius.

"I do not think so, my Legatus. I shall take him to the slaves." was the response from the Legatus' head Praetorian.

"Speaking of slaves, Nero, while you are back at camp, get me Venalicius Octavius. I wish to hear his report on the slaves collected while we were at this Mars-forsaken place."

"Will do so, my Legatus." With an extended arm and a 'true to Caesar', Nero quickly made towards the camp, picking up Tiberius in his arms and hoisting him over his shoulder, staining his already crimson armor with further blood, this time of a legionary origin.

The Legatus' armor was dinged and battered. This seemed to be a hard fought battle for all involved. Dead Vaqueros and legionaries alike littered the ground, though there were far fewer legionaries dead than Vaqueros. The heavy infantry, with their riot scutums and pila were cleaning up the rest of the camp, making sure Vaqueros on the ground were dead and crucifying those who were unlucky enough to be left alive. The women and children were herded off by Praetorians and heavy infantrymen, and after a few minutes, Nero came back with Octavius.

"Ave, Octavius. What are your reports on the slave intake?"

"We have incurred more losses than expected, but we still took an excess of 80 slaves from this camp. A lot of the women are visibly pregnant, and are expected to give birth very soon, my Legatus, and will surely boost the number up by 25 at the very least."

"Very good, Octavius. Please see to it that the slaves with medical experience are separated from those who are only good for manual labor, as we have many who are injured from this battle."

"Of course, my Legatus. True to Caesar."

"True to Caesar."


	8. Calm After the Storm

Tiberius was in and out of consciousness. The slaves did their best, but without proper medical knowledge and equipment, Tiberius looked to be lost. Centurion Augustus himself visited the boy, a rare opportunity, but he was not conscious for that. Augustus personally demanded Aurelius to supply him with adequate doctors for the boy. Aurelius simply laughed in his face and told him if he did not get out of his tent, he would crucify him personally.

Then, a legionary patrol came back with a very rare capture indeed, a Follower of the Apocalypse. A blonde bespectacled man, he was kicking and screaming the whole way, but when he saw the boy, he immediately asked for medical tools. It was a very, very difficult process, as Tiberius was out in the sun, bleeding for an hour before medical attention could be administered. Yet, through the Follower's skills, his medical tools, and Mars' blessing, Tiberius pulled through. The doctor said many times that the boy was lucky the knife was a simple pocket knife, its length far too short to reach his brain. He also might have snuck in a few chems, such as stimpaks and Med-X when the legionaries weren't looking, but you didn't hear it from him. Perhaps one such legionary saw him, and perhaps he turned a blind eye. Again, you didn't hear it from him. Tiberius' eye was beyond saving, however, and instead he was supplied a simple strip of leather to cover his eye with. Hardly the most elegant eyepatch, yet it seemed to fit him. A few days later, the doctor was set free in exchange for helping all injured legionaries, although some may have noticed he was less excited to help those who were adults.

Tiberius strode back to his contubernium's tent in triumph, having looked Death in the eye and spitting in his mouth.

"By Mars' beard, is that you?" Latium spoke in awe.

"Of course it is me, brother!" Tiberius shouted back, giving Latium a bear hug.

"I see your eye was not so lucky as the rest of you." Brutus noted.

"No matter, brother! Why do you think I was born with two?"

The entire contubernium erupted in laughter, a hearty, deep laughter coming from a place of camaraderie, of bonds forged by the flames of the Legion, strengthened by the heat of battle.

"What now?" Tiberius asked.

"What do you mean?" was Brutus' response.

"Do we go back to Camp Vulpe? Or do we continue the campaign?"

"We sit and wait. The Centurion has not yet decided whether or not to attack a nearby raid camp, but if he does, we might be part of the battle, considering our size and the enemies' presumed reluctance to shoot us on sight."

"Another battle?" Latium asked. "A few days ago our comrade almost died! Sure, we've been going on raids, but another battle is madness!"

"A few days, brother." Macellarius butted in, his voice a growl. "A few days is enough to prepare. In fact, it is much, much more than enough time for a simple raid camp."

"Macellarius, think of Tiberi-" Latium started

"Silence." Macellarius commanded, and Latium obeyed.

"What's with Macellarius?" Tiberius asked, quietly.

Brutus whispered back, "He was promoted to full legionary after what he did at the battle. A 12 year old becoming full legionary? Madness! So now he technically outranks us all. There's talk of making him Prime or even Veteran by age 13. Since he is a full legionary, he is also eligible to be elected Decanus of our contubernium, which we did."

Tiberius' jaw practically fell off at that point, he dropped it so hard.

"Stop gawking, he'll notice."

* * *

Healing powder was issued to soldiers, and the more outdoorsy types made their own. The camp was alive with the beating of war drums and the sharpening of blades. Tiberius recovered, his muscles barely going through atrophy, and joined in on the preparations. His fists were the only weapons he needed, he always said, and he certainly backed his words with action. All the sparring matches he participated in, he destroyed his opponents with his bare hands, even when they have wooden machetes or spears. Vegetius always said that he would be a great praetorian if he applied himself, which Tiberius did. When it came time for battle, he donned a knife gauntlet, kitchen and combat blades alike fused to a ring of iron, alongside his wrist, and a dogtag fist in the other, with the dogtags of long-fallen pre-war soldiers tied to his fist with hempen rope. His old weapon had been, unfortunately, lost in the battle, and probably melted down for raw metal already. No matter. It was but a weapon, a tool for killing. There are always more.

When it came time that night for prayer to Mars, the boys huddled around their campfire, sacrifice in Macellarius' hands. A small fire gecko, one he caught with his bare hands when foraging earlier in the day, its mouth taped shut so its flames could not harm anything but itself. The camp priestess came by all the contubernia's fires and blessed them each for battle, and finally came around to Brutus' contubernium. She was wearing a long red and gold toga, her hair adorned with a faux-laurel wreath, her hair flowing over her back and shoulders in all its raven beauty. She looked to be no older than 30, and she walked with such confidence and purpose one might think she was a legionary herself. She was shadowed by a slave, the slave's rags contrasting sharply with her master's fine clothes, and she looked to be carrying a large bag with her.

"May Mars bless you all in battle, and may he strike down all that oppose him, you, and Caesar alike." she said with enough conviction to rally even the most skeptic.

"And shall he bless you with longevity, priestess." the contubernium responded, with equal vigor and conviction.

She beckoned for the slave, who seemed to understand. The slave dropped the bag on the ground, and opened it for the priestess. The priestess reached into it and took out a handful of its contents, the sacred flesh of a she-wolf, and tossed it into the fire, the meat sizzling and singeing in the flames.

She and her slave moved towards the next contubernium, and Macellarius stood up, fire gecko in hand, and cut its throat over the fire, its muted cries of pain being drowned out by the crackle of the fire and the sizzle of the blood touching the flames. When finally, the animal died, its body was tossed onto the fire to be sent to the God of War himself in the heavens above, and in turn he was to bless them with combat prowess and ferocity, and curse their enemies with incompetence and failure.

Brutus, of course, didn't buy into the whole Cult of Mars, yet he wasn't opposed to the idea. Though he didn't believe in it, he understood that it brought together all these different tribals, from possibly hostile backgrounds, different, warring tribes, all united under the sign of the Bull. The Cult bonded them together, as well as any battle, and set aside their differences in service to a higher power. Besides Caesar, of course.

Obviously he never made his opinion known, as he didn't particularly wish to adorn a cross.

* * *

"Men, today we have a very special mission indeed. It appears that the Vaqueros have allied themselves with a local tribe, one calling themselves the 'Hidebarks'. Their warriors are ferocious, and their camp's location is not yet known. We need to send scouting parties out, alongside a raiding party or two to find out where the profligates are, and destroy them to the last man." Centurion Augustus pointed towards the crowd to two Decani.

"Decani Macellarius and Labienus. You two will scout out the land and find the Hidebarks. I trust this is acceptable?"

"Of course, Centurion!" Macellarius and Labienus said, with an extended arm each.

"Then be on your way. We don't have long before the Hidebarks join the Vaqueros in their fight against Caesar, and when they do, it will be much, much harder to fight them. True to Caesar."

"True to Caesar!"


	9. O, Mars, Magnus Bellator

_AN: This chapter will get pretty graphic. If you're squeamish, stop reading at the line break._

"The Hidebarks, huh? Anyone know anything about them?"

Latium, as usual, broke the silence. They were trekking across the desert, the red sand underneath their feet radiating heat so strong they felt it through their sandals. The only reason they all weren't sunburnt to hell was that Gaius picked some herbs and rubbed them all over them, which acted as some sort of tribal sunblock. It was times like these Brutus was thankful for his tribal background. And his pteruges. He couldn't imagine going through the desert in something like pants.

"They're our enemy, and they're profligates. I'd like to see them burned to the ground. End of story." Macellarius said, with a hint of anger. Brutus thought it strange he had enough of an opinion of some random tribe to dislike them. He didn't push it, though. Many in the Legion disliked tribal culture as a whole, so it wasn't particularly strange, yet Macellarius didn't normally speak that way of other tribes.

"Hmph. The sun's going down. Let's make camp there." Macellarius stated, pointing to a small alcove in a nearby mesa. "We'll make a fire and signal to Decanus Labienus that we are settling down for the night."

They walked towards the location and began to set up their camp. Like the ancient Romans before them, legionaries were prepared, willing, and capable of being military engineers, creating structures, roads and walls whenever they needed. They began to erect a perimeter around the small camp, using mounds of sand and rocks. It wasn't a large wall, but it was big enough that any attacker would have to go through the opening instead. Julius and Octavian were posted as guards, and Brutus and Tiberius were building the fire.

"Yeah, make it in a little cone shape." Brutus said. "And the dry leaves go underneath it. Yeah, like that."

Brutus grabbed a piece of flint off the ground and struck it against the steel blade of his machete. Sparks flew, and after a few tries, the leaves ignited and the campfire lit. Thick, black smoke began to fly out of it when Brutus tossed a large piece of rubber from an old tire onto it, and Tiberius grabbed a large sheet of polyester from his backpack. He placed it over the fire, and waited for the smoke to dissipate. Once it did, he took the sheet off and put it back on, so that the smoke made a two puff pattern. He repeated this for 5 minutes, and then put the sheet back in his bag, so that he could use it later.

A few minutes later, Tiberius spotted an incoming smoke signal. Puff, puff, puff, line, line, line, puff, puff puff. He knew enough about smoke signals to know that code. An SOS.

"Labienus is in trouble!"

"I see it, too. Come, brothers." Macellarius responded. He picked up his weapon and headed off, followed by his contubernium. They did not tear down camp, there was no time.

* * *

They walked until the stench of blood hit their nostrils. Brutus already heard the buzzing of flies as they neared where the campsite. Labienus and his men were nowhere to be found. Finally, as they climbed up the small hill overlooking the campsite, they saw why. The coppery stench increased to eye watering levels, and Brutus wiped his eyes clear. That's when he saw the first head. It was upon a spear, with a look of both shock and rage frozen on its face. He took silent comfort in the fact he did not die a coward, whoever this man was. The man had no helmet, no identifying features to tell whether he was Legion or tribal. At least, Brutus thought that until he examined it further. The man had a tattoo on the back of his bald head, one of the Gilded Taurus.

"By Mars…" whispered Latium. "Who could've done this?"

"I know not who did this, but I will slaughter them to the last man, with my bare hands." Macellarius responded, his voice a low growl.

"Let's… let's examine the rest of the camp. See if there are any… survivors." Brutus proposed, looking to his brothers.

"I fear we have no choice in the matter, so let us go."

They walked over to the camp, on high alert, jumping at every small movement that wasn't made by a legionary. When they finally got to the site, what they saw was almost unbelievable. No two man seemed to be killed in the same fashion.

Brutus looked to his left and saw a legionary, disemboweled, his intestines spilling all over the ground, staining the sand deep crimson. To his right was a man, still with machete in hand. Only the hand, nor the arm, nor the legs, nor the feet were attached to his body. They seemed to be laid out in a specific manner, possibly a ritual of some sorts.

They crept through the camp, and saw even more brutalities, the likes of which are on the level of the Frumentarii. A legionary was crucified, nails and all, and he was nude. The legionary had a wound on his side and a large puddle of blood underneath it. Upon his head was a crude tribal crown of sorts, crafted from thorny dead bushes.

More legionaries were displayed in gruesome ways, one had all their limbs crushed, one had the remnants of a tire around his neck, and seemed to be a charred husk of a man. However, the worst of all was when they reached the center of camp. There, they saw Decanus Labienus.

The man who fought many battles, and won them all. He killed his lion's share of men, and was on his way to veterancy. This man was on the ground, and slowly looked up to the contubernium. There was a trail of blood behind him, and a strange flap of canvas on the ground where it started, also covered in blood. Labienus had no skin. His innards were no longer such, and the only place left untouched was his face, possibly so they could identify him. His muscles were caked with sand and dried blood, and they could see his weakly beating heart and struggling lungs. His ribs were removed and stabbed into his legs, and his arms were completely missing. That's when he opened his mouth and spoke, a very ragged, weak voice, unlike the booming and commanding one they knew he had.

"K-k-kill… m-me…. p-p-plea-please…"

No one in the contubernium moved an inch. Not a muscle. Then, without warning, Macellarius chopped off Labienus' head with a swipe of his machete. Julius went back and looked at the canvas, and saw hairs on it, and scars. He put it down.

"Mars forgive us…" Tiberius said, clenching his fists and looking to the night sky.

"No, he will not just forgive us. We shall _earn_ his forgiveness through battle, and take revenge for this tragedy." Macellarius growled. "Let it be known that I, Macellarius, shall kill every single man who is responsible for this with my bare hands."

They dragged the bodies into the middle of the camp, and piled up flammables into a makeshift pyre. Igniting it, they toss the bodies into the funeral pyre, and sing a mourning song in Latin. The haunting tune carried into the night sky, and to the wasteland.

_O, Mars, magnus bellator_

_Ferre haec homines ad caelum_

_O, Mars, deus noster bellum_

_Ut pugnant, et in aeternum_

_Da nobis tua ductu_

_Et da nobis tuam hasta_

_Non enim sumus complevit_

_Nos oportet, non eos tamen_

_O, Mars, magnus bellator_

_Nos uindicares_

_O, Mars, deus noster bellum_

_Tantum ergo ibimus,_


	10. Makings of a Monster

AN: Sorry, something messed up with the doc. This is what the chapter is supposed to be. Somehow it deleted the entire segment where the Equites were driving, and the battle was deleted as well. Sorry I didn't catch it earlier, must've been very confusing.

* * *

The roar of the engine bellowed into the night as the machine turned on. Revving up the engine, the man on the motorcycle turned to his left, then his right. His fellow men were also revving up their engines, and looking around just like him. He put on his helmet, a crude reconstruction of the helmets ancient Romans used in battle, and drew his spear. It was not a throwing spear, unlike the ones his unmounted brethren used, but a stabbing spear. His comrades did the same. The motorcycles lit up the night, illuminating the desert and casting long shadows over the rocks.

A horn blew. Their signal. All at once, the men drove forward on their motorcycles, spewing dirt and exhaust into the skies. Their commanding officer pulled ahead of them all, to lead them on their mission. The mission they got directly from their officer's officer. Their leader raised his fist in the air, holding his spear, pointing the spearhead at the sky, crying out into the night a phrase his men followed up on.

"Ave!"

"Heremus!"

"Ave!"

"Caesar!"

"Ave!"

"Mars!"

They drove, far into the night. Beyond their encampment, beyond the crimson banners and the Gilded Taurus. All 200 men, 200 equites, 200 legionaries, storming across the desert sands. They spewed dust and exhaust into the air, creating a cloud of sand and smoke so large it could be seen almost a mile away. The men chanted Legion praise, Legion phrases as they rode throughout the night. Praising Mars, calling for his aid in battle, and proclaiming their loyalty to Caesar.

The Centurion spotted his target. The mission Legatus Heremus assigned him to take.

"Optio!" he cried.

"Yes, Centurion Sextus?"

"Sextus Magnus, Optio. Tell the men we've found them."

"Right away, Centurion. True to Caesar."

Sextus Magnus murmured a true to Caesar and sped up, which his men did as well.

He'd found his mark. A town, a large town by tribal standards. It had building of mud and stone, alongside buildings of wood and bricks. No two buildings were alike, as one might have a tin roof and sandstone walls, while the other has a thatch roof and a mix of wood and stone walls. In the village, everyone felt the vibrations. Items that were too close to the edge of tables fell off, and all could see the plume of dust on the horizon. The Legion has arrived.

The town went in a panic. Warning bells rang, and a town militia was hastily formed. 100 men, armed with everything from spears to makeshift machetes, to pipe pistols and rifles. Almost none of them either had armor or had the time to don it before they were called to arms. Quickly, they manned the walls and barred the gates. Not that this would help.

The legionaries arrived at the town and began their siege. They began circling the town, not unlike sharks or motorcycle gangs of old. Each legionary had a sidearm, either a revolver or a 9mm pistol. Each legionary had been trained since their induction in the Equite Cohort to fire while mounted, with deadly accuracy. One by one, as they circled the town, they fired at the defenders. The militiamen took potshots at the legionaries, but they were just too fast and every time a townsman peeked above the makeshift ramparts to fire upon the legionaries, a hail of gunfire from all Equites who could see him would send him either ducking down or to his grave.

This went on for half an hour. The defenders were pinned down, and the legionaries showed no signs of stopping the assault. In an act of desperation, the captain of the Towns Guard rallied all men he could spare from the walls and gave them a short speech.

"Men. Today we stand here under siege from Caesar. That rat bastard thinks he can destroy us. Let's prove to him, once and for all, that we are a force to be reckoned with. For we, men, we are-"

He was cut off by a man from the wall above him falling down, face first into the sand behind him. His head was riddled with bullets, and an unholy amount of blood was gushing from the wounds onto the sand.

"Let's show them what we're fucking made of!"

The men gave a half-hearted cheer, and opened the gate to sally forth against the legionaries.

Of course, this is exactly what they wanted.

The Equites swerved to meet the militiamen, once again drawing their spears and charging forward to meet the 50 or so militiamen. The small, huddled crowd was no match. Each legionary came crashing, full force into the formation, killing one or two with each pass. The militiamen tried desperately to stop them, but when one man's arm was ripped off from the force of him attempting to hit a legionary's helmet with his machete, they broke. The man routed, and head inside, to their families huddling in their homes.

The Equites near the gate drove up and prevented townsmen and militiamen from closing it with a few shots to the temple and chest. One drew a horn, and blew it, sending a haunting noise throughout the air. The battle was won. The rest of the militiamen fled when they realized the town had been breached, and cowardly ran to their homes, hoping the legionaries would take pity on them.

The 200 equites dismounted their steeds one by one, and when they all dismounted, they stormed into the town and started slaughtering all the townsmen, one by one. No spear was left unbloodied. No legionary left without at least 2 kills to his name.

The cries of women and children carried through the air. Anguished, animalistic, and truly despair filled cries. No legionary took heed to their pleads. No legionary gave quarter, no legionary even considered giving mercy. A single person survived in the end. The pet geckoes, dogs, and even the occasional molerat were put to the sword. All were slaughtered. The men who were unlucky enough to survive the initial slaughter were crucified, the women endured much, much worse punishment. Yet not a single legionary gave it a second thought. The last person, the one who survived, he was a boy. Just a child. The centurion was one who spared his life. He kneeled down to the boy's level, and told him this.

"Boy. You are lucky. Look around you."

The boy simply looked down until the centurion struck him across the face.

"You look at me when I talk to you, profligate!"

The boy did not cry. He found he had no ability to do so. So he simply looked the centurion in the eye, and did as he was told.

"That's better. Now, look at the bodies around you. Look what we did here today."

The boy again did as he was told. He looked around him, and saw the full carnage. Bodies everywhere, blood splattered on the walls. There was so much blood. Legionaries laughing as they chopped up bodies. Smoke billowing over some houses as legionaries set them aflame with residents inside them, and pushing them back inside when they ran out. The screams were deafening. The stench of blood, smoke, and gasoline filled the air and made his eyes water up and clouded his vision.

"Good. What is your name?"

The boy looked to the centurion, at his red plume of horsehairs.

"Are you deaf now? Fine. Go. Tell other villages what you saw, what we did. Tell them what Caesar did."

The boy nodded to the centurion, and backed away slowly. The centurion pulled his pistol out and fired at the ground, near the boy's foot.

"Faster!" he said, laughing. "Dance, boy! Dance!"

The boy ran, and ran far. When he got away from the village, past the sounds, the smells, the sights of the Legion, he finally collapsed. On his knees, he looked to the heavens and wept. He wept for hours, not moving. Curious geckoes and radroaches approached him, but none dared disturb him. Finally, it was midday. The boy got up suddenly, and kept walking. He just walked, walked for miles. He didn't stop, not to sleep, not to eat, not even to relieve himself. He just kept walking for days.

Eventually, he reached a village. A woman approached him while he wandered the streets, and balked at him. He was filthy, and obviously starving and dehydrated. But she stopped cold as she realized his shirt wasn't colored red by dyes. She knelt down to him, and looked him in his eyes. He looked back, with a thousand yard stare as she asked him a simple question.

"What happened to you?"

He looked back at her, tears welling up in his eyes, as he answered her question.

"Hidebarks. Legion."

"What is your name?"

"My name is-"

"Freyja! What the hell are you doing!"

The woman looked fearfully to her right, where she saw a big, burly man. He stank of alcohol and despair, and she seemed to sense that.

"T-Tycho! I was just helping this boy!"

"What the _fuck _are you doing out! I told you to make my fucking dinner an hour ago!"

"Y-yes! Right a-away!"

She whispered words of encouragement into the boy's ear, and scampered off to her home. Tycho stumbled over to the boy, and started slurring words at him.

"And who the fuck are you? Danny Dipshit number seven trying to get money from me? Well, are ya?"

The boy looked to the ground, and mumbled a "No, sir."

Tycho looked at the boy incredulously, and continued. "No, sir? No, sir!? Who the fuck you think you're talking to, boy? You backtalking me!?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir."

Tycho's eyes seemed to bulge from his head and his skin flushed red with rage as he yelled at the child.

"What the FUCK did you say to me!? I'll teach you manners you little shit!"

His fist raised to the air, and he drunkenly swung towards the boy. The boy was quicker, and dodged out of the way just in time as Tycho's fist impacted with the stone wall.

"FUCK!"

Now thoroughly pissed, Tycho swung again at the boy, who was still faster, and Tycho's fist impacted the same wall. Letting out a slurry of foul words, he reached into his pocket. Pulling out a switchblade, he flipped it open, revealing the silvery blade.

"Yeah, that's right you fuck. How do you like me now?"

The boy didn't flinch at the sight of the blade. Instead, he picked up an empty bottle of beer and smashed it against the wall, creating a sharp weapon.

"Okay, kid. Let's dance."

Tycho's drunken stumbles towards the boy were easily sidestepped, and the boy stabbed the drunk man in the leg, causing him to cry out in pain. He dropped his switchblade, which the boy picked up. Breathing heavily, Tycho said to the kid, "Hey, we're cool, right? H-hey! What's your name, kid? Can you at least tell me that?"

The boy simply shook his head and sliced the man's Achilles tendon with one swipe, leaving him to bleed and shout lamely on the ground. He started walking, swiping food off of tables and drinks off of window sills as he passed. The villagers simply looked at him and nodded. He ate while walking, only stopping to relieve himself and to take hour long naps.

He walked for days, weeks. Finally, he found his target.

A small camp, three red tents around a smoldering fire, loud snoring coming from the tents. The boy simply climbed a nearby steep hill and laid down.

He waited for days and watched the inhabitants of the camp. From what he gathered, there were 8 legionaries there, and two slaves. They were both women, wearing nothing but rags marked with a red X. The decanus was a loud, boisterous man, and the legionaries just followed his orders. Finally, they left the camp and headed off to the north. He followed them from a distance. Even more days passed, the boy hunting for geckos with Tycho's switchblade until a particularly tough gecko broke it. He simply strangled it after that happened. He didn't cook the meat, as he knew a fire would alert the legionaries. He liked his steaks rare anyway.

The legionaries then came to a large encampment, with scrap and wooden walls surrounding it. This was his true target.

The boy came down from the new hill he was observing the legionaries from during the night, and one by one, he killed each legionary. He killed the first one using his broken bottle, and the rest with the first one's machete. The two slaves looked at the blood covered child and almost cried out, but when he moved past them and killed their captors, they stayed quiet. He cut their restraints and told them to run.

"W-Who are you?" they asked him. He simply told them again to run.

They complied, and ran far into the night. But his work was not yet done.

The two legionary guards at the encampment told him to stop when he approached them, but were silenced when he showed them the head of a decanus. They pulled their blades out, but they were silenced once again by his blade. They did not go down without first calling for reinforcements, however. Swarms of legionaries came out of the gates, and overwhelmed the boy. Finally, the camp Centurion came out and stopped them from killing the young man. He knelt down to him and told him to come with him. Of course, without any weapons.

The boy complied, and threw every weapon he had down. Except a rock he had hidden in his shirt. The centurion led him into his tent, and they started talking. The boy told him how he got here, what he did, who he killed.

"And what is your name, boy?"

"It doesn't matter, sir."

"I suppose it does not. From now on, you can call me Centurion. I see great potential in you."

"Thank you, sir. But why? I've killed an entire contubernium by myself, not counting the men coming out of the gate? Why?"

"I don't know. All I know is that you could be a great asset to the Legion. Though your past is against us, perhaps over time you could learn to love the Legion, to love Caesar."

"With all due respect, sir, I doubt that."

"Don't worry, boy. I'll personally make sure it happens."

"Thank you, sir. I look forward to fighting for the Legion."

"You need a name, though. Let me think…"

The centurion thought long and hard, before coming up with his final answer. A name that would be remembered, a name that would carry with him into his adult life. A name in which he could be proud of.

"I know the perfect fit for one such as yourself. Your name from now on shall be…"

* * *

Make all our enemies cower in fear.

All shall fall at the tip of our spear.

Caesar's best Legate shall arrive.

Even the strongest will not survive.

Lanius shall rise, the Bear will die.

Legions will fight, and heads will fly.

All will kneel before the mask of Mars.

Republics die, bearing his scars.

In New Vegas, nothing shall remain.

Victory will come, further Legions will train.

Shall I await the West's Bane?


End file.
